Everyone had gathered in the cargo bay, but Amaru's grin was so wide it looked like her face might explode.
"MECHS!"
Before anyone could blink, she dashed forward — a blonde blur of excitement and insanity.
The machine stood before her: a six-legged walker, all steel sinew and rage, its 360-degree ball turrets humming with cold precision. On each flank, twin cannons modeled after the old B-29 Superfortress guns gleamed under the bay lights, and behind them, a massive rail gun — a brutal descendant of a 1940s Flak cannon — waited like a sleeping god of war.
Amaru was already crawling over it, under it, around it — a living spider orbiting her new mechanical prey. Her fingers traced the plating, her laughter echoing through the hangar.
"Look at these legs! These joints! I love it — it's like me but angrier!"
She clung upside down from the chassis, fangs flashing in a grin.
"Can I keep it? Please tell me I can keep it!"
CAT crossed his arms, the metal joints clicking like clockwork. His artificial eyes glowed a sharp crimson as he stared down at Amaru.
"No. The AT-45 Raider isn't some junkyard toy. It's a tactical unit — built for hunting across exoplanets, designed to survive radiation storms and rip through kaiju-class fauna. It's how we level the playing field out there. So no, Spider— you don't get to keep it."
His tone was measured, but those glowing eyes said what his voice didn't: try touching it again, and you'll be mounted like a trophy.
Amaru dropped from the mech's undercarriage with a graceful thud. She brushed the dust from her jacket, pretending not to notice CAT's glare.
"Fine, fine. I wasn't gonna steal it… yet."
Tyson leaned toward her, his voice low and tired.
"Amaru, the KPH would crash it before they even figured out which end fires. It's Legion tech — experimental. Dangerous."
The squad climbed into the AT-45 Raider. The interior was all steel and cold light — wires like veins, pistons humming faintly under the floor.
CAT took the center seat and pulled a thick cable from the console. Without hesitation, he plugged it into the port at the back of his skull.
"Running diagnostics," he said, voice flat but focused.
The Raider shuddered — a beast stirring from a long slumber.
"Zhe Zeft!" Limes barked from the outside
The massive walker groaned as its left-side joints flexed. Steam hissed from the leg pistons. The ball turrets rotated, their metal shells creaking under pressure.
"Zll zheck! Zhe zirght!"
The right limbs obeyed, mechanical tendons stretching with a deep crack like thunder through the bay.
Then, suddenly, the entire cockpit bathed in amber firelight. The control panels pulsed alive, and a voice spoke — deep, metallic, and ancient in tone:
"AT-45 Raider. Serial number 1150029751. Online.
Welcome back, Clone Assault Trooper-19490810, under the banner of Jupiter's Army.
Ready to serve your command — and the Legion of Man.
Hail the Führer of Man!"
The voice carried a synthetic distortion, like an old radio signal forced through flesh and metal.
Silence followed.
"…Creepy," Amaru muttered. "Why does every old robot I meet sound like it lost a galactic war?"